Twilight and Dawn; Or, Simple Talks on the Six Days of Creation

by Caroline Pridham

THE THIRD DAY.

THE WORLD OF WATER.

"The sea is His, and He made it."—PSALM xcv. 5.

"Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of His hand?"—ISAIAH xl. 12.

"Who layeth the beams of His chambers in the waters."—PSALM civ. 3.

"He hath compassed the waters with bounds."—JOB xxvi. 10.

We have been learning something about the wonderful world of air, in which we live and move about. To-day we shall think a little of that vast world of water which is the home of so many of God's creatures. I daresay you know a pretty song about the ocean, beginning in this way (it is meant to be sung by a sailor):

"The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies."

The philosophers say that if our earth were quiet and at rest, instead of being the never-resting traveller that it is, the great mass of water would surround it everywhere, just as the atmosphere does. We cannot imagine such a thing, but we can see many ways in which the two great oceans are alike.

Both have their waves. Though we cannot see those in the world of air, we can hear them, as you know.

Both are colourless in themselves, yet blue in their heights and depths.
Both are made of two airs or gases, beautifully combined.

At first sight we might say that this is almost too strange a tale to be a true one; for few things seem more unlike than air and water. You will think it stranger still when I tell you that one of the gases which goes to form water is that same oxygen which gives life to the air we breathe, and which will burn so fast if only a tiny spark comes in contact with it; while the other is the gas called hydrogen, the "water-maker," which also burns. And yet these two fiery gases make the water which the brave firemen pump in streams upon a burning house to put out the flames. How wonderful this is! If you were to mix them together as carefully as you could, using exactly the same proportion of each as is found in water, you would make something very dangerous, which might blow up with a terrible noise like gunpowder. It is only when they are "combined," which means very closely joined together, that they form water.

Perhaps this is rather hard to understand; but we have been taking only a very little peep into that page of what is called the Book of Nature, which tells to those who will take the trouble to read it something about the chemistry of things—not so much how they are made, for that is a lesson too great for us, but what goes to the making of them.

And now we are going to read the verses in our chapter which tell us of the time when, at the word of God, "the sea and the dry land" were made.

"And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called He Seas: and God saw that it was good."

Once more you have read these words, "God said," "God called," "God saw." They are quickly read. But who shall say how wonderful is that of which they speak? God has been pleased in these few words to tell us what no one could ever have found out about the birthday of that mighty world of waters, when it was gathered together unto the place which He had prepared for it, and received its name from Him.

I wonder whether you have ever seen the sea. If you have, you know it and love it so well that there is no need for me to try to describe it to you. If you have not, if your home has always been in the country among the quiet fields, far away from the sound of the waves as they break upon the strand; or if you have lived all your life in the town, where the streets are full of noise and bustle, and busy folk hurrying to and fro—then I think it would be almost as difficult for me to give you an idea of what the boundless ocean is like, as it was for the kind miner to make his little friend understand all about seas and lakes and rivers, as he talked to him over that poor little pail of water, deep down in the dark mine.

Ah! you must see the great ocean-world for yourself; you must sail over the crests of the waves, and learn to swim and dive. If you have never yet been to the seaside, there is indeed a treat in store for you some day, and I should like to be with you when that day comes, and catch a sight of your face, so full of wonder and pleasure. I remember hearing of a little "city sparrow" of a boy who was taken with a great many town children to spend a long summer's day by the seaside. When he first came in sight of the bay, with its bright, dancing waters, and saw the tide rolling in, wave after wave, upon the yellow sands, he gave one long, satisfied look, and then said, "How nice it is to see plenty of anything!"

Poor child, these words of his told their own touching tale; he had never, in his parents' home, known what plenty was, and so his first thought about the "great and wide sea" which God had made, was that there was enough of it and to spare—no stint there, at any rate. To another little boy, the first sight of the sea brought this thought, "How great God, who made it, must be!"

It is delightful to live, as I did when a child, within sight and sound of the sea; but I suppose it is only those who really live upon the world of waters, sailing away in a swift ship, day after day, for thousands of watery miles, and seeing nothing but the two oceans, "the blue above and the blue below," as that same sailor-song says, who can really know anything of its vastness. How strange it must seem, to be neither a fish nor a bird, and yet to live as it were between sea and sky; each morning finding yourself farther away from land, each night lying down to be "rocked in the cradle of the deep," and to hear the wash of the waves as the boat cuts her way through them, and the sighing of the wind, not through the trees on the lawn, but among the sails and ropes of your floating home!

I have sometimes thought that the sight of "water, water everywhere," during a voyage of three months, must make one more ready to believe what we are told by those who have done what they can in the way of weighing and measuring—that upon our globe "water is the rule, and dry land the exception"; and also that, although we read in geography books about the five great oceans, yet the ocean is really one, for it "embraces the whole earth with an uninterrupted wave." As we think of this wonderful wave which thus girdles the earth about, constantly breaking against the shore, yet always flowing back again, at its appointed time, into its own place, we may well remember that THIRD DAY of Creation, when "God spake, and it was done; He commanded, and it stood fast"; when "He gave to the sea His decree, that the waters should not pass His commandment."

In a Psalm which has been called the "Psalm of Creation," because it speaks of the greatness and glory of God, and of how the Lord shall rejoice in His works, we find a description of what happened at this time. There is a beautiful verse which speaks of God covering the earth "with the deep as with a garment"; and of a time when it was so covered and hidden that "the waters stood above the mountains."

[Illustration: "WHEN SPRING-TIDES ARE LOW">[

And then we read how, at God's word, that waste of waters went into the place prepared for it, and the dry land appeared. "At Thy rebuke they fled; at the voice of Thy thunder they hasted away. The mountains ascend, the valleys descend, unto the place which Thou hast founded for them" (you will find the verse reads like this in the margin of your Bible). "Thou hast set a bound that they may not pass over; that they turn not again to cover the earth" (Psalm civ. 7-9). I was very young when I learnt this long Psalm; and though I understood very little of it, and certainly did not know that these verses spoke about what we have been reading of in the Book of Genesis, I was very fond of repeating it, and I especially liked the part which describes the "great and wide sea, wherein are things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts. There go the ships: there is that leviathan, whom Thou hast made to play therein." Of course I need not tell you that I did not know what the leviathan was; but I liked the name because it was such a long, difficult word, and I have known other children who were particularly fond of strange and hard names. As we grow older we learn many things; and so—for I told you my home was by the sea—I got, in time, to know the meaning of a very difficult verse; that one which speaks of the "bound" which God has set, beyond which the sea with its proud waves "may not pass." When the tide was coming in I used to watch the long blue waves with their foamy crests coming nearer and nearer, and when I heard them break with a loud noise against the strong rocks I was quite sure that those stern barriers were the "bound" which kept them back, and would not allow them to come any further.

But by-and-by I went to a place where the shore was quite different. There were no rocky cliffs, like giants, guarding the land; only a long reach of soft white sand, with which I was never tired of playing—making forts with moats round them to keep off the enemy; or gardens with straight paths, and trim beds in which I planted sea-daisies and poppies.

It seemed as if there was nothing about this shore strong enough to keep back the great waves. They rolled in upon the sand with an angry roar when the wind was high, and swept away my castles and gardens in no time. Still, even here there was a bound, for the sea did not overflow the land; and so I learnt that those waves, which threaten to overwhelm everything in their resistless march, are kept in their place by God, who alone can say to the restless ocean, "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed."

As the poet George Herbert has beautifully said,

"Tempests are calm to Thee; they know Thy hand,
And hold it fast as children do their father's,
Which cry and follow, Thou hast made poor sand
Bound the proud sea, even when it swells and gathers."

I do not mean that the waves, as they rush like an invading army upon the land, have no effect upon it. Look at the Map of England, and see how the outline of the coast on the east and south has been jagged and broken. Or go and see the Needles in the Isle of Wight, and you will learn how the constant dash of the ocean can hollow out not only caves, but deep coves and spreading bays, especially when the land against which it breaks is made of chalk, or some of the softer rocks. Thus in the course of long centuries, the seashore may rise or sink; peninsulas may become islands by the narrow neck which united them to the mainland sinking into the water—but whatever the land loses in one place, it gains in another, by the quantity of sand and mud cast up by the waves. Many changes are caused by the restless sea, but yet, even in its wildest moods, it owns the curbing hand of its Maker; it may ebb and flow, but still keeps in its appointed place.

This ebbing and flowing, which is caused by the coming in and going out of the tides, was a great puzzle to me long ago. I used often to hear the fishermen say at what hour it would be "full tide"; but I saw no mark which could help them to fix the time, and wondered, when I found their words came true, how they could know so surely. When I was older I learnt, what is very interesting, that the gradual rising of the ocean, which is called the "flow," and the gradual going back again of the water, which is called the "ebb," do not happen at any chance time, for nothing is by chance in God's creation, but at regular intervals, and in obedience to one of those wonderful rules made by God, which people call the "laws of nature"—rules which never change as the rules which men make so often do. And so we notice that for about six hours from the time when the tide begins to rise, the sea gains upon the land, either stealing on, step by step, over the pebbly beach, and creeping tip the mouths of the rivers, or, when the winds are abroad, rushing over the sand, and dashing against the rocks, as if it would sweep all before it. No power upon earth can stop that steady onward march of wave upon wave, until the unseen boundary is reached. Then we say, "It is full tide." The mighty ocean seems to pause for a few minutes, then some old fisherman, who has known that shore all his life, says, "The tide has turned"; and for six hours the gradual fall goes on. At last the lowest point of the "ebb" is reached—a few minutes' rest, and then the "flow" begins again.

To those who have seen it all their lives there is nothing strange about this, but when some brave Roman soldiers, who were accustomed to conquer wherever they came, saw for the first time this ebb and flow of the tide, they were more frightened than they would have been if they had seen an army of savage men with spears and clubs rushing upon them with their fierce war-cry. They were in the presence of a power which they could not understand, and in terror they besought their general to lead them against foes whom they could face, or to take them back to their own land!

By-and-by you will be interested in learning more about the tides, but I will only tell you now that they are caused by the sun and moon. Two pair of waves travel round the earth every day, the greater pair obedient to the moon, which, because she is so much nearer to us, has a greater power of drawing the water to herself than the sun has; the lesser pair obedient, in like manner, to the attraction of the sun. This is all that I can tell you now about a very difficult subject, and it is more than I told Chrissie or Ernest when we were talking about the sea; but then you know we had not much time for matters hard to be explained. One thing which I think we did talk about was the depth of the sea, and I know there were some differences of opinion about this as well as about its colour.

First of all, then, How deep is the "deep, deep sea"?

Actually, in some places, five miles deep, about the height of the loftiest of mountain-peaks. I have heard that these far-away ocean-depths are very quiet and still—no rolling waves ever break their stillness, and this is proved in a very beautiful way. At the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, where overhead great billows which seem mountain-high are in ceaseless motion, there lie beds of delicate shells, so small that you need a microscope to see their beauty, yet these shells are unbroken; no storm ever reaches their quiet home; they are among the lovely things which the ocean hides in its "treasure-caves," and they only come to light when the long line with a clip at the end, which is used for deep-sea soundings, brings them to the surface from those

"Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream."

These delicately "chambered" shells were once the homes of creatures which lived in the sunless depths of the ocean, for though it is totally dark at the bottom of the deep, deep sea, life is now known to exist at all depths below the surface of the ocean; on the ocean-floor starfishes and their relations abound, and some of those brought from a great depth are very beautiful indeed—telling to those who have eyes to see, the same tale as the little fern buried in the coal—that it is the glory of every created thing to show forth something of its Creator, even in hidden places where no human eye can trace its loveliness.

I am sure when we speak of the treasures of the sea, you are thinking of places where pearls lie deep, hidden in the shell of the oyster—but I did not know until lately that not only iron and copper, but also gold and silver, are found in sea water.

And now what can we say of the colour of the sea? I used to think that it was always a clear green, but that was because the sea which I knew appeared to be that colour, for I had seen it only near the shore, where the bottom was fine white sand, and the sunset light made the water shine like an emerald. And so the sea was green to me, and I was often puzzled and vexed to find that I could never catch this beautiful green water; for you know that if you dip your bucket where the sea looks greenest or bluest, all the lovely colour will seem to be left behind, and your bucket-full will look as colourless as water drawn from a well. Where the sea is dark blue, you may be sure that it is deep where it looks gold and purple, the sun has tinged it with the glory of his rising and setting; where it is grey and sad, it takes its sorrowful hue from the rain-clouds overhead. These are some of the reasons why the sea is of such different colours, but the water is sometimes coloured, to some extent, by myriads of living things which give it a reddish tinge; in the cold Northern Ocean, where the icebergs are, travellers tell us the sea is green because there its tiny inhabitants are green; while those who have sailed in the South American waters tell of countless swarms of minute creatures which make them glow like fire on a dark night, lighting up the crest of every wave as it rolls past the ship.

The sea is also coloured by those beautiful plants which we often call by one common name—seaweeds, but which are almost as varied in their way as the land plants are.

Columbus, when sailing sadly through unknown seas in search of the New World of which he had dreamed so long, came upon water so covered with long green weeds that it seemed like a floating meadow, while his vessels could hardly make their way through the grassy tangles of what is now known as the Gulf-weed.

I have seen the sea off the coast of Ireland green for miles, with long, ribbon-like plants covering its sandy bottom, sheltering, and perhaps helping to feed, the millions of crawling and running and swimming creatures, many of them so small as to be nearly invisible, which find their home there. This sea-grass, or Zostera, the only flowering plant to be found in the sea, is very useful to the poor people who live near the coast. They gather it when the tide is low, and dry it in the sun, and it serves them for nice soft beds; though I should think they must always keep a briny, fishy smell about them.

[Illustration: "O'ER BANKS OF BRIGHT SEAWEED, THE EBB-TIDE LEAVES DRY.">[

The Irish fisher-folk also gather the common brown seaweed with pods, which are really air-bladders, and serve to keep it afloat. I have many a time watched the women and children wading among the pools, cutting it from the rocks with sickles, and putting it into baskets, which they carry home on their backs; for this precious harvest of the sea is what they depend upon to make their potatoes grow well and yield a plentiful crop. There is another kind of seaweed, of a pretty purple colour, which they eat, and call it by an Irish name which means "leaf of the water."

But it is far away in the watery valleys of the great Pacific, where the sea is very calm, that the ocean forests grow. I have read that there giant leaves of the sea grow upon stems longer than those of our tallest trees, and spread abroad like waving palms. Though you are not likely ever to see such seaweeds as these, you will find, wherever you may be, though much more abundantly on some shores than others, some of those beautiful "weeds"—green, red, or brown—which have their use as well as their beauty; for they help to purify the water, just as plants do the air. Perhaps I should not promise more than the brown Tangle and the green Ulva, with its bright lettuce-like leaves; for red seaweeds belong to deep water, and are not easy to find. Many an hour have I spent peering and groping in the little pools at low water in search of these same much-prized rosy-tinted "flowers of the sea"; and many a disappointment I have had, even after a fortunate find, in seeing how soon the lovely colour faded, in spite of all my efforts to keep it.

We often speak of the "salt sea" or "the briny ocean," without perhaps thinking how it comes to be salt. I used to think it was because there were vast salt mines at the bottom of the sea; but that was only a guess at the truth.

Let us think what happens when there is a heavy shower; how quickly the raindrops gather force until they run down the street, making gutters on each side! But how unlike the muddy water in these gutters is the rain as it fell from the sky—how is this? It is the same water, but as it hurries along each drop picks up and carries with it its own little grain of sand or dust. If tiny gutters are tinged by the mud which they carry with them, how much more must this be the case with the great rivers which empty themselves into the ocean! They carry with them not only sand and earth, but the minerals and salts which are contained in them, to form the bed of the ocean. The salt which is thus washed out of the soil by streams and rivers is not evaporated, but remains behind, for the sea has no outlet through which it can again be carried away.

If you go to Switzerland, you will be able to see for yourself how a great river as it rushes along its course washes away the soil. The Rhone, when it enters the Lake of Geneva, is so laden with mud that its waters are brown and turbid. For some distance you can trace the course of this brown water as it makes its way through the deep blue of the lovely lake, not mingling with it—but by the time the river reaches the other end of the lake it has rid itself of its burden: the mud has sunk to the bottom, and the Rhone flows out a clear stream. This is a strange and beautiful sight which perhaps you may see some day.

Have you ever noticed how often the sea is mentioned in the New Testament? We read of the Lord Jesus walking beside it, and sailing over it in the boat with His disciples. And I daresay you remember how He once sat in the boat upon the sea, while He taught the people who were upon the shore. The Sea of Galilee must have been calm and quiet then, but it was not always so. Travellers tell us a great deal about the beauty of this lake, when the sky is clear, and the crimson bloom of the Oleanders is reflected in the still water. But they speak also of the sudden and dangerous storms, which rush down from the mountains, and turn the glassy lake into a raging sea. In the gospel by Mark we read of just such a storm of wind, when the Lord Jesus Christ was in the little boat with His disciples crossing over to the other side. It was such a terrible storm, that the waves dashed into the boat until it was filled with water.

"And all but One were sore afraid
Of sinking in the deep;
His head was on a pillow laid,
And He was fast asleep."

Yes, amid all the tumult and alarm, the Saviour who was often weary in this sad world, was sleeping upon the cushion of the boat. He slept on until the disciples came and awoke Him with their cry, "Master, carest Thou not that we perish?" Then the voice of the Lord was heard above the rage of wind and water, and their cry of terror, as He rose and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, "Peace, be still." The proud waves obeyed that voice of power, the wind was hushed, "and there was a great calm."

Do you remember what the Lord said to His disciples, and what they said to one another, as they "feared exceedingly"?

Perhaps you wonder how anyone could be afraid, no matter how dreadful the noise of the winds and waves might be, when the Lord Jesus was there. It is true that in that little boat, tossing upon the dark stormy lake, was the One who upholds all things by the word of His power, the One whose word those stormy winds fulfil; but the disciples, though they had been so much with Him, were now to learn a little more who their Master was, and to find that there was no fear of perishing when the Lord of life was with them. They seem to have forgotten, too, that He had said, before they launched the boat, "Let us pass over unto the other side"; or they might well have afforded to be quiet when He slept, for after He had said those words, they were as sure of being there with Him as if already landed.

How kind it was of the Lord to put the disciples with Himself, and say, "Let US pass over"; and how safe and free from fear of harm are those happy people who have trusted themselves, with all they are, and all they have, for this life and the long life that is to come, to this mighty, gracious Saviour and Lord! One who knew this great happiness, once wrote these beautiful verses about having Christ in the boat as he sailed over the ocean of life, with its many storms. He said—

"My bark is wafted from the strand
By breath divine;
And on the helm there rests a hand
Other than mine.

"One who has known in storms to sail
I have on board;
Above the raging of the gale
I hear my Lord."

Once again in the same gospel by Mark we read of a tempest coming on while the disciples were crossing the Sea of Galilee; but this time their Master was not with them in the boat. He had told them to go to the other side while He sent away the crowds of people whom He had been feeding with the five loaves and two fishes—and then He had gone into the hill-country to pray.

The evening came on, the sky growing dark much more quickly than it does in our country, and Jesus had not come to them. Still the disciples rowed, and tried to get their boat to land, and still the storm grew louder.

"Fierce was the wild billow,
Dark was the night,
Oars laboured heavily,
Foam glimmered white."

How they must have longed to hear again that well-known voice rebuking the rough wind, and saying to the angry waves, "Peace, be still!"

But the tired disciples rowed on; and Jesus had not come to them. They did not know what we know, that their Master was watching them; He knew that they could not bring their boat to land, and that they were worn out with toiling at their oars, and were sad at heart too. And so, just at the darkest, coldest hour of that night of fear, the Lord came to His beloved ones. I have seen a picture of the weary men in their tossing boat, and a shining figure which is meant for the Lord Jesus, as He came to them, walking upon the white crests of the waves. But no picture can give a true idea of that wonderful scene.

Do you remember how frightened all in the boat were before they knew that it was the Lord?

They cried out for fear; and in answer to their cry they heard their
Master's own voice talking with them, and saying, "Be of good cheer: it is
I; be not afraid." Ah, what a change was there!

"Sorrow can never be—
Darkness must fly,
When saith the Light of light,
'Peace; it is I.'"

And now, before we come to the end of this "world of water" chapter, listen to a wonderful story of the sea, told by the only one who could tell it—the heroine of the tale.

Look at the map of Scotland, and you will find its most northerly county, Shetland of the Hundred Isles, lying between the Atlantic Ocean and the North Sea. Perhaps you know this part of the world mostly in connection with the pretty little shaggy Shetland ponies which feed upon the young heather, and are brought to England for children to ride; but those who have visited it can tell very interesting stories about the wild country, with its warm-hearted kindly fisher-folk, and they often bring home with them beautiful shawls which the women and girls knit from the soft wool of their sheep.

They tell us that of the hundred islands, about thirty are inhabited. Some are large, but others so small that only one or two families live upon them; and others are little more than rocks—the home of sea-fowl of every wing.

In the largest island you will soon find Lerwick, the chief town. Now look to the very south for the lofty cliff called Sumburgh Head, and near it Grutness Harbour, where they catch the grey fish.

It was from this harbour that a small vessel, the Columbine, set sail on Saturday, January 30th, 1886, intending to make the voyage—rough at all times, but often very perilous in winter—along the coast to Lerwick.

Many a boat had perished on these cruel shores, even since lighthouses have been placed to warn the seamen from the most dangerous rocks. If you had asked the captain of the Columbine about his route, he would have told you that he must steer past Cape Noness, then close to the Isle of Mousa, with its ancient castle built in the time of the Picts; Bressay Island would next come in sight, and then the tall lighthouse which guards Lerwick Harbour. He might have told you, too, that upon that January morning he was starting with only one passenger on board—an elderly woman who was leaving her home in the south of the island to go and see a doctor at Lerwick, as she had been ill for some months.

The two men who formed the crew of the Columbine returned the same day as they had set sail, in an open boat belonging to their vessel. They said it had been blowing hard when they started, and they had not got more than four miles on the way when the captain was knocked overboard by a sudden jerk of the boom. They quickly lowered the boat, and rowed hard to save him; but, sad to tell, all their efforts were in vain, and they were at length obliged to give up the attempt as hopeless, and were about to return to the ship, when, to their dismay, they saw that she had drifted out to sea, and, with her helpless passenger on board, was now far beyond their reach.

The men pulled with all their strength; but the sea was so heavy, and the Columbine drifted so fast, that the distance between them rapidly increased; and at last they had to turn and make for the shore, which they reached with difficulty in their little open boat.

They told their tale, but nothing could be done to reach the drifting vessel. Towards nightfall, some fishermen on the Isle of Mousa, where opposing currents meet, and the sea is white with foam, saw the Columbine pass, driven along by the wind. She was soon out of sight, and was heard of no more upon the shores of Shetland.

And what became of Elizabeth Mouat, the sick and lonely passenger, who shared the fate of the abandoned ship?

You must hear her story, for, wonderful to say, she lived to tell it; and I know those who saw her safe and sound in her Shetland home, and heard it from her own lips. But she had been to Norway meanwhile, a much longer voyage than to Lerwick.

Below in the little cabin on that Saturday morning, weak from ill-health and very sea-sick from the rolling of the vessel, Elizabeth heard the alarm on deck caused by the accident to the captain, but knew not what had happened. Presently she heard the boat suddenly lowered, and a terrible fear took possession of her mind.

"I am deserted!" she said. "The men have gone off and left me alone in the ship."

With the strength of despair she left her berth, and tried to get on deck; but just as she was about to mount the ladder, it fell to the ground. She had not power to lift it and put it in its place again, though she tried hard and often. But although unable to get on deck, she was just tall enough to look out of the open hatchway; and as she looked this way and that, neither captain nor crew were to be seen, only the little boat, which the Columbine was fast leaving behind; and she knew that her worst fears were realised, and she was indeed left alone.

Presently she began to consider what it was best for her to do, in her solitary condition, as far removed from human aid as poor Robinson Crusoe upon his island.

There was plenty of food on board, but it was impossible for her to reach it, and she had with her in the cabin only a bottle of milk and two biscuits.

As night came on, and the vessel still drifted, carried by the wind, she knew not where, if Elizabeth had not known how to "cry unto the Lord" in her trouble, how terrible her feelings would have been! As she stood with her head just above the hatchway, ever keeping her anxious watch, and searching the horizon in vain for a sail, the wild seas dashing over the vessel often drenched her through and through. She knew that her cries could reach no mortal ear; and still the masterless vessel drifted, drifted on into the night. But Elizabeth had a strong Refuge. She quietly committed herself and the ship to Him, who is "the confidence of all the ends of the earth, and of them that are afar off upon the sea." And when the long night wore through, and morning broke, again she searched the waste of waters with eager eye, but in vain—no land was in sight, no friendly sail showed white against the red dawn. Far as eye could reach, nothing could be seen but the sky above, and the heaving ocean below.

But from that time, during the seven days and nights which followed, Elizabeth never lost hope. When she told the story of those days, she simply said that she put her trust in God, and that she believed He would bring her safely to land. For a whole week she never slept, but every now and then stood up and looked around for the sail which never appeared, or for the light which, shining through the darkness, should give token that help was at hand. Once indeed she saw the red light of a ship, and her heart beat high; but the vessel went on its way, knowing nothing of the lonely voyager.

The two biscuits were carefully hoarded, but at last not a crumb remained, and for four days she was without food. But in telling her tale, Elizabeth said that she suffered more from wet and from thirst than from hunger. To allay her thirst, she used to lick the drops of rain from the window panes. At last, becoming too weak to keep her constant watch, she tied herself close to the hatchway, fearing lest she might roll away from her post of observation, and be unable to get back to it. And so, for eight days, the Columbine and her passenger—so weak and helpless in herself, so strong in her trust in God—drifted over the wild waves of the North Sea.

It was on Sunday morning, February 7th, that a vessel which had lost her mast came ashore among the rocks near Aalesund, in sight of a crowd of Norwegian villagers. As she drifted in, a woman's head was distinctly seen, and a brave young fisherman, taking a rope with him, swam out to her, climbed on board, and found Elizabeth tied to the hatchway, still alive, still confident.

She was drawn ashore by the rope, and thus her long voyage to Norway ended. She found herself among strangers truly, who spoke a tongue unknown to her, but was kindly cared for at a farm-house, until she was sufficiently recovered to be sent home to Shetland, where she received a letter which must have, indeed surprised and pleased her. It was from our gracious Queen, and contained a present for Elizabeth of twenty pounds. I am sure you will like to read the letter, so here it is:

"WINDSOR CASTLE, March 27th, 1886.

"The Queen has been much touched by the account of the sufferings of Miss Mouat, and was pleased to learn, by her brother's letter of the 20th, that she is recovering her strength."

[Illustration: WINDSOR CASTLE.]

Do you not think Elizabeth must be very proud and pleased to show the
Queen's letter to those who ask her about her voyage to Norway?

A Norwegian gentleman, writing about the place where the dismasted, unpiloted vessel drifted ashore, says:

"Had not the Columbine been steered by an invisible but almighty Hand, she would never have got clear of the thousands of rocks. So furious was the storm that all the boats not taken ashore went down at their moorings; and yet the Columbine escaped the network of rocks and skerries, and picked out the only place where she could have beached!"

Elizabeth did not see the Lord Jesus walking upon the waves, and drawing near to her in the dark night, as the disciples did; but surely she heard His voice through the storm, hushing her spirit, and saying to her, as He did to them, "It is I; be not afraid."

I know a little girl, older than Sharley or May, who is fond of repeating a beautiful poem about the storm on the Lake of Galilee. Perhaps you would like to learn it for your next hymn. It is called

"TO YONDER SIDE."

"Behind the hills of Naphtali
The sun went slowly down,
Leaving on mountain, tower, and tree
A tinge of golden brown.

"The cooling breath of evening woke
The waves of Galilee,
Till on the shore the waters broke
In softest melody.

"'Now launch the bark,' the Saviour cried;
The chosen Twelve stood by;
'And let us cross to yonder side,
Where the hills are steep and high.'

"Gently the bark o'er the waters creeps,
While the swelling sail they spread;
And the wearied Saviour gently sleeps,
With a pillow 'neath His head.

"On downy bed the world seeks rest;
Sleep flies the guilty eye;
But he who leans on the Father's breast,
May sleep when storms are nigh.

"But soon the lowering sky grew dark
O'er Bashan's rocky brow;
The storm rushed down upon the bark,
And waves dashed o'er the prow.

"The pale disciples trembling spake,
While yawned the watery grave;
'We perish, Master—Master, wake;
Carest Thou not to save?'

"Calmly He rose with sovereign will,
And hushed the storm to rest;
'Ye waves,' He whispered, 'Peace, be still!'
They calmed like a pardoned breast.

"So have I seen a fearful storm
O'er wakened sinner roll,
Till Jesus' voice and Jesus' form
Said, 'Peace, thou weary soul'

"And now He bends His gentle eye
His wondering followers o'er;
'Why raise this unbelieving cry?
I said, To yonder shore.'

"When first the Saviour wakened me,
And showed me why He died,
He pointed o'er life's narrow sea,
And said, 'To yonder side.'

"'I am the ark where Noah dwelt,
And heard the deluge roar—
No soul can perish that has left
My res—To yonder shore.'

"Peaceful and calm the tide of life
When first I sailed with Thee;
My sins forgiven, no inward strife,
My breast a glassy sea.

"But soon the storm of passion raves;
My soul is tempest tossed;
Corruptions rise, like angry waves—
'Help, Master, I am lost!'

"'Peace, peace, be still, thou raging breast:
My fulness is for thee'—
The Saviour speaks, and all is rest,
Like the waves of Galilee.

"And now I feel His holy eye
Upbraids my heart of pride—
'Why raise this unbelieving cry?
I said, To yonder side.'"

McCHEYNE.